New Order
by MollyElfie
Summary: Sherlolly - Sherlock needs to save molly. But is she capable of doing it herself? A fanfic devised via text messages sent to and from me and my bestest friend katie - couldn't be done without you :D xxxx, warning: bamf molly, bamf sherlock, bamf moriarty, BAMF EVERYONE...dancing, plot twists, sexy sherlock ;) hope you enjoy and feel free to comment, review etc... :)
1. Who You Are

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order **-

Chapter 1 - **Who you are **

(yes the chapter names are based on lyrics from blue monday by new order :D )

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had absently been plucking at the strings on his Stradivarius.

There had been nothing to note case wise in a long while.

It was to be expected really. He _was _considered a murderer to most people at the moment.

Apart from the odd twang from his violin and the distant car-horn or police siren from outside the house - which, annoyingly, had nothing to do with him - 221b was very quiet, very cold and very empty.

However, all this was disturbed by screen of his phone lighting up. Unknown number. A client? Then, in a delayed reaction, he heard the first few notes of a song which made his heart jump to his mouth and made his hand leap towards the phone in question.

The voice on the end defiantly was nowhere near a client. Nowhere near any actual living, humanoid.

This man was a 'spider'. A supposed-to-have-died-when-he-shot-himself-in-the-mouth sort of spider.

It didn't take much for Sherlock to admit he had awaited this call.

"Hey Sherlock, just checking up on you. How's life?" he asked casually, the oh-so-familiar Irish brawl making him a little bit sick in his stomach.

"I should be asking you the same thing." Sherlock growled.

"Ooooh dear! Don't be like that Sherlock!"

James Moriarty's steps and exclamations could be heard echoing in the background of the phone call. Why was he phoning anyway? Was he just _trying_ to be annoying?

Sherlock sighed, trying to make his eye-rolling as audible as possible.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing much - I was just wondering, would you like to share stories? I'm intrigued, how _did_ you survive that fall, it was a _very _tall building. _No one _else seems to know _anything_."

"Who have you been pestering Jim?" Sherlock drawled, remaining calm. If he had tried to extract information in distasteful ways, something would've had to have been done.

"Oooh...no one...well, no one really. No one that _counts._" He put a strange emphasis on the last word. He almost whispered it and the echoes that were heard in the background faded away and Sherlock could swear, for a second he heard another person breathe down the line.

"Look, I'm not playing games with you. Not now. There are cases that need my attention." Sherlock dismissed Moriarty's silliness, with a wave of his hand; forgetting that he wasn't being watched. Of course, Sherlock was lying through his teeth. It was a dangerous tactic with James Moriarty, however, it was Sherlock's default when bored.

"Buuut Sherlock, I want to play a game." Jim pouted, sounding like a winging child. "C'mon. Hazard a guess. Who'd you think this is..."

The safety on a gun was clicked off. The next thing Sherlock heard was a squeaky and frightened whimper. A woman. Not John. Thank God. Not Mary. He doubted that Moriarty would have had an easy time getting Mary to play hostage, what with her own, secret, skills.

Sherlock had subconsciously already take part in this little 'game' of theirs.

"Who is it." He demanded more than asked. He didn't mean to sound so desperate.

"Guess." James sneered, his smile evident in his words.

"I'm not taking any of your shit Moriarty. Tell me. Now."

"Not playing nicely are we?" he mocked, "Fine then, If your not going to play, I'll just have dispose of her." Sherlock heard a whimper again. Moriarty had obviously held the gun to 'her' (whoever she was). "I thought you might have wanted her back...well, apparently you don't count Miss Hooper. You _were_ right. Oh we-"

Sherlock's stomach dropped.

Molly.

He had been terribly slow.

Terribly, terribly slow.


	2. I Heard Your Words

Sherlolly Fanfiction -** New Order**

Chapter 1 - **I heard your words**

* * *

"No!" Sherlock shouted down the mobile in reflex, letting his guard drop for a second.

Moriarty let out a shrill, cruel, genuine laugh. "Oh, Molly, he is willing after all - shall we see what he does?"

"Moriarty. Don't. You. Fucking. Touch. Her." He breathed, heavily down the phone, already standing up, letting the possibly 6 million pound or so, violin drop to the floor. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he rushed around the eerily quite and empty flat, searching, desperately, for his gun.

"Touched a nerve have I?" Moriarty giggled, gently, which had the opposite effect on Sherlock, as his jaw muscles tensed and his attempts to find the gun that he or Mrs. Hudson and very cleverly hidden, sped up, frantically.

"Touched several, and for that, I'd decapitate you." He angered. Sherlock finally found the gun in the drawer with the kitchen forks - of course it was there.

The next time Moriarty spoke, Sherlock nearly squeezed the trigger.

"Aww...well...while you enjoy yourself doing that, I'm going to have some fun...with Molly."

Moriarty's tone changed to a sultry whisper as he turned to Molly and her breath hitched.

"If you lay even _one _of your sordid little fingers on her I will personally have you severed into tiny pieces and I will feed them to your family. Believe me, I have contacts and I know you have a family of sorts. I _will _make you pay."

"That sounds fun...I'd love to join you, but Molly's perfume is so...delectable...tonight..."

He made an audible and sharp sniff and Molly yelped. "Mind you, the scent of blood is a tad off-putting." Sherlock's teeth were set on edge as he willed, with all the power of his brilliant mind, for her to just hang on, several more minutes.** Don't fret Molly Hooper. I will get to you, and I will kill the bastard myself if it comes to it.**

Sherlock put his coat on when he was outside and the gun resided in the right pocket of the woolen Belstaff. He slipped out of the door in a matter of seconds.

Constantly and quickly working on tracing the source of the phone call, Sherlock became astounded at how easy it was.

Almost as if he wanted to be found.

However, Moriarty worked in terrible, mysterious ways.

Sherlock hailed a cab. It would take 11 minutes by underground, but only 8 by taxi - either way they decided to take him. It was late in the evening and their was very little traffic. London was empty and Sherlock Holmes needed to move fast.

"36 Sackville Street." He commanded the driver, "And do try to bloody step on it."

The man with the bald head, merely reminded him that there were such things as speed limits, every time Sherlock cursed or swore at him to drive faster. Sherlock tried to tell him that he had a brother high up in the government that could help to brush aside any fines that might normally have made his way.

"Thats what they all say." Was the driver's response. However, Sherlock did notice that he did increase his speed slightly when he could.

Finally, after what seemed, definitely, more than 8 minutes. He was on Sackville Street. He shoved a £50 note at the driver and carried on down the road.

**Number 36. Number 36. Number 36. **

There it was. A Georgian building with the lower half converted into a warehouse / loading bay. Probably rented out to art studen-

**No time to observe, Sherlock. **He told himself as he reached for the gun in his pocket, briefly checking the street for any passers-by as he barged through the large, industrial, metal door.

Sherlock ended the call that he had been tracing, as soon as he entered the building.

Then, he called it again. Moriarty hadn't even bothered to block the god-for-saken number.

"YOU CAN TELL BY THE WAY I USE MY WALK I'M A WOMAN'S MAN, NO TIME TO TALK..."

The song that now, bought a shiver down his spine - even if it was just droning on in the background, on the radio - was just a couple of steps down the hall and in the first warehouse on the right.

Sherlock loaded his gun.

Sherlock kicked open the door.


	3. Your Misfortunes

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order**

Chapter 3 - **Your Misfortunes**

* * *

"Let her go." He ordered, pointing the loaded pistol right at Moriarty's chest.

He looked him in his mad, evil, cunning eyes and for some strange, miracle-worthy reason, James Moriarty held up his hands in surrender.

He still wasn't conforming to all of Sherlock's orders though. With another look, Sherlock made Jim toss the gun at the floor.

"Do. Not. Test. Me. James. Moriarty."

He pointed the gun at the villain's head.

"Okay, Okay, you can have your bitch back."

He particularly spat those words as he sauntered back over to Molly's chair and freed her.

He purposefully did this as slowly as possible. Like a child brushing their teeth before bedtime.

When the last rope fell to the ground, he picked Molly up and all-but threw her back to Sherlock. She stumbled. Her legs buckling from both fright and force.

Sherlock lunged forward before she hit the ground, catching her with one hand, the other was constantly focused on Moriarty's head.

Keeping the gun pointed at the now, rather boyish and bashful looking Moriarty, he turned his attention to Molly.

**Cut along hairline. Bleeding. Didn't look too deep. Possible stitching? Most likely caused when Moriarty kidnapped her. Blunt instrument caused temporary unconsciousness. She was still in her work clothes. She hadn't had time to change after she had gotten home. She didn't have shoes on, so had not been at work. A couple of blood drops were on her cardigan and a tear in the front of her blouse. A Cut lip and a bruised cheek. Slapped. He had slapped her. More than once. **

**Oh was he going to pay. **

"I will kill you for this." Sherlock snarled, like the very angry dog that he was.

"As you have mentioned on multiple occasions." Jim jeered, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking backwards and forwards on his heels.

Sherlock looked back at Molly; Even though, only a couple of drops of blood had been spilt - and they had, sadly, not been Moriarty's - That was by far enough. The fact that Molly had to loose, even a cubic nanometer of blood because of, or over, this maniac, was too much. Far too much.

"I think it's best you leave now."

Moriarty's eyebrows raised and his lips turned upside down with astoundment.

**"**Really? I should leave? Well..." he started, "You know me Sherlock. I never do whats best."

Sherlock lowered his gun, put it back into the pocket of his Belstaff and shrugged off the heavy-duty coat and wrapped it around the shaking Molly, pulling her close to him in a protective way, now that there was none of that from the gun.

"Then we're leaving. We've got cases to solve." He sneered, importantly.

"Oh, so, _you're _leaving? Yes, that would be the _best _thing to do." Moriarty emphasised, as Sherlock tried to steer Molly back out of the hellhole he had come to save her from.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Always doing the _best _thing. Like I said, _on the side of the Angels._"

Sherlock kept silent, but didn't move; he was rooted to the spot.

"Not denying it? Or, are we trying to come up with some smart-arse, comeback?" He spat this, standing closer to the pair in the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

"But little Molly here. She is so frightened. Scared shitless. Do you know what she is frightened of Sherlock?" He asked, grinning.

Then. his expression changed, rapidly, frantically - it drained.

"YOU!" he boomed. The room reverberated around them, the noise repeating itself a thousand times. Molly tried to bury herself deeper in the coat and she felt his grip tighten around her.

"She told me herself."

Molly wanted to reassure Sherlock that she never told him that she was scared of him. All she had said while he had tied her to that chair was that he made her nervous. She didn't want to but he had said things and hit her and she felt weak giving in the slightest bit, because Sherlock wouldn't have and if she wasn't doing this for him, then who else? He had asked her this question before. She remembered specifically when: after 'Jim' had met Sherlock in the lab. She hadn't been excessively nice about him when 'Jim' had asked 'What do you make of Sherlock then?" - she had retorted with something like "A horrible, manipulative arsehole who plays with people's nerves to get what he wants." - there may have possibly been a few more swear words than she could remember.

However, Molly knew Sherlock wasn't scary. He merely knew how to command a situation in every possible way; from the way he dressed to the tone of his voice; Molly knew that a man who openly shunned love and even mild affection wouldn't make an extra effort to look good for the sake of being attractive - And by God was he attractive - He did it to contribute to the image of power and knowledge that he held. That made Molly (and everyone else who wasn't a psychopath) nervous - but also quite impressed.

'Jim' was but a step away from Sherlock's nose. Completely ignoring the fact that she was there.

"No." Sherlock groaned though his clenched teeth.

"Oh yes Sherlock." He spat. "Molly likes me more than youuu!" He sang like a child winning some sort of competition.

Sherlock breathed heavily; **In and out**; he reminded himself. **Calm down. **

"Oh and do you know what Sherl? One day...one day when Miss Hooper gets bored of all your mind games...she will come running back to me - Jim from IT."

His voice changed into that of the persona he had donned for those weeks, many, many years ago. He was only a hair's breadth away from Sherlock's nose, but he wasn't even looking at him. He was rather suggestively eyeing Molly.

He moved across to her.

He reached his hand under the coat and cupped her face. Stroking her cheek.

Molly didn't make a sound. Molly had sense.

She felt Sherlock move beside her, to swipe Moriarty's hand out of the way.

She kicked him - lightly - in the leg.

Every time Moriarty's thumb made a downward motion on her skin her blood ran cold and half of her wanted Sherlock to do something. But no, this was better than being bludgeoned to death by a madman.

"Oh and how I look forward to that day..." he said gently to Molly. His hot breath on her face. "It'll be like old times Molly...Such a shame Sherlock'll miss out."

Then James Moriarty leaned in, slowly, slowly, but then all of a sudden his and Molly's heads were being rammed together in, what might have been called a kiss in any other situation.

Molly whined - her already split-lip bled again and then she sucked in a sharp breath as Moriarty pinned his body against her's and decided to rest his hand under her shirt, on her waist.

She squealed.

He felt so close.

_Too _close.

But it wasn't for long as Sherlock ignored Molly's previous advice on seeing him violate her dignity and personal space, so he grasped Moriarty's hand and collar and pulled him off of Molly.

"Jealous?" Moriarty laughed as he was held up by his throat.

"Of _you_?" Sherlock's voice had gone hoarse and rugged with stress.

Molly shook as Moriarty and Sherlock battled each other with their eyes for almost 4 minutes, until it seemed to be enough for Moriarty and he decided to opt for a more 'hands on' approach.

He grabbed Sherlock by the neck and they both landed on the floor in a strangling-fight which Moriarty won.

Sherlock was now pressed up against the metal, loading bay wall.

Molly's hand flinched to the weight in the right pocket of the Belstaff.

Sherlock tried to catch a breath as Moriarty squeezed his neck.

Then Sherlock's feet hit solid ground again.

"Not even fighting back."

Sherlock wheezed.

Moriarty slapped him.

"How about now?" He was shaking with sudden fury - spitting in Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes had gone wide with the shock of the hit.

Then it came again.

You could hear that it stung.

"How about NOW?"

Molly's ears rung - he was close to her too.

Again.

Every time he laid a hand on Sherlock, Molly's hand flinched.

Then he punched him.

Square, across his jaw. Hard. The bruises on his face were already forming.

"C'mon Sherlock Holmes. FIGHT M-"

Moriarty raised his fist to make contact with his cheek again, but was cut short.

Molly's hand had tightened on the trigger, and before she knew it she was pointing the weapon at Moriarty's back.

She'd done enough work with the human body to know where to hit and why.

One shot.

She didn't even care if he suffered. From what she had seen, he deserved to. Also, she just needed to get him off Sherlock.

He staggered backwards, away from the man he was assaulting, and laughed.

Of course he laughed.

Jim Moriarty would hold on to the role of 'consulting-madman' until the curtains had fallen.

He fell down and managed to prop himself up so that he was sitting with his elbows resting on bent legs.

"Ha. Good one. You got me." He wheezed, still laughing, the pain and the position of the bullet hole making it hard to speak. "Guess I'll see you both in Hell - Bye."

He waved at the pair then toppled over sideways, the dark patch just visible in the back of his 'Westwood' jacket.

And just like that, Moriarty died.

Dr Molly Hooper had killed him.


	4. I Shall Obey

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order**

Chapter 4 -** I Shall Obey**

* * *

Sherlock hadn't moved at all. He was still trying to work out what had just happened. **Moriarty had said something about 'Hell'. There had been a bang. Why was Molly standing like that? What was she doing with the gun? Why was Moriarty on the floor? Why was the smell and colour of blood assaulting his senses? **

Molly hadn't moved either.

She still held the gun out in front of her, except now her hand was shaking violently.

She cried.

Sherlock's head snapped to her. The look of horror and disbelief as he finally believed the evidence in front of him.

He looked at the gun and Molly's quivering hands dropped it to the floor.

Sherlock moved to pick up the pistol and then guided the weeping doctor back to his side.

He tightened the coat around her, put the weapon in his back pocket and then they silently left the room.

The silence was unnerving until Sherlock told the cabbie where to take them.

"221b Baker Street. Please."

"Sherlock...Why are we...?...why am I...?...I thought that-" she spluttered.

"No. You are coming back with me. Do you really think you'd like to be alone after what just happened? Also, I need to get you patched up. I have a first aid kit."

He sounded shaken as he settled down in the cab - not as much as Molly, nevertheless you could hear it - but he also sounded strangely triumphant by the fact that he owned a first aid kit.

Oh, the wonders of the modern world.

The cab stopped and Sherlock helped Molly out. Unsure whether she'd be able to make it all the way to 221b without buckling over, they walked side by side, with his hand supporting her around her waist and he made sure that her arms was over his shoulders.

Molly trod as far as she could with no shoes, without making a fuss. That was until Sherlock _insisted_ on making a fuss.

There was a perfectly placed puddle right outside 221b, just the right width so you couldn't go around it. She had planned to hop over it. However, it seemed that Mr. Holmes had other ideas when he pulled her, extremely awkwardly, in front of his face, they were practically nose to nose and Sherlock held her under the armpits like a three year old being picked up by it's dad. Molly was so much shorter than Sherlock that her feet merely dangled, disgracefully, in midair, until she was plonked back down, the other side of the threshold.

Neither of them knew what to say. They just sort of shuffled and shoved their hands in their pockets, mumbling 'thank you's and 'Its fine's.

Sherlock turned, hurriedly, up the stairs and Molly followed after closing the open door and shrugging off the heavy coat.

He had left the door of the flat open.

It was very quiet and very messy. You could tell that John hadn't been round for a while to clean things up and he would _never _let Mrs Hudson touch his things.

She walked through to the kitchen where Sherlock has cleared a space on the table in the centre and he had placed the first aid kit he was so proud of, near him on the left side.

He gestured for her to sit in the chair that he had pulled round in front of him; he was already assessing the wounds.

**Antiseptic. Possible stitches - he would need to get a closer look - if not, a plaster would suffice. She would also need bruise cream for the bruise on her right cheek and some ibuprofen for the headache that was imminent.**

**Sherlock also thought that they wouldn't go amiss with him either. **

Molly seated herself on the chair, then he set to work, breaking out the antiseptic wipes.

Molly winced when he first touched the cuts, but then the pain subsided and she began feeling thankful that her wounds weren't fatal and also for that fact it was Sherlock who was tending to them. For lots of reasons.

"Do you want me to put some of that on your bruises?" Molly asked, quietly, when he squirted a small amount onto his finger and began applying it to the tender area on her cheek.

"...no...I think I can manage well enough by myself." He replied, looking at Molly as if she was mad.

"But you can't see-"

"I do own a mirror."

Molly blushed, realising that she could have saved him a lot of work and herself a lot of awkwardness.

"Shit. Sorry. I didn't realise - I mean - um...I just...I didn't think." Molly apologized, looking away as he touched her cheek again.

"What are you sorry for?" Sherlock asked, stopping and putting the bottle of cream back on the table.

"I could have saved you _a lot _of time and effort if I hadn't been stupid enough to think of the existence of mirrors."

"No. I don't mind. I was going to put stitches in so thats why I initially did it. I don't recommend putting stitches in yourself. Especially with your hand shaking like yours." He looked to Molly's hand which had only a slight tremor, but obviously enough to stop her from performing simple medical procedures.

"Also. I want to. It's the least I can do."

Molly smiled gently at Sherlock. He smiled briefly back, then carried on dabbing her face and finishing with the final flourish of a plaster on the deeper cut on her forehead. They shared a small laugh and both downed two pills of ibuprofen each.

Sherlock glided back into the living room; Molly had more trouble getting there, carefully avoiding random piles of books, lab equipment, a blowtorch (was it considered a fire hazard if it wasn't plugged in?), and at one point, a violin which she thought looked remarkably like a Stradivarius, but couldn't possibly be. He wouldn't leave that on the floor.

He quietly slumped back into his, worn, black, low-slung chair, and his arms bounced up into his default thinking position.

His eyes closed and Molly perched herself carefully on the arm of 'John's chair'. She didn't think that he would like her to sit there.

She was wrong apparently.

"Unless you have some aversion or allergy to Joh - that chair, I think you'd find it more comfortable if you _sat _in it."

He still had his eyes closed. _How did he do that?_ Molly didn't question, she just did as he asked and sat - or rather _sunk_ - into the armchair.

After a long silence, in which Molly just stared at Sherlock, he piped up;

"Molly?" He questioned, she looked at him, "Would you like to dance with me?"


	5. I Thought I Was Mistaken

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order **

Chapter 5 - **I Thought I Was Mistaken**

* * *

"Pardon?" Molly excused, making sure to listen perfectly well this time; because last time, she thought he had asked her to dance. Silly Molly, silly.

"I asked whether you would like to dance." He repeated. Sherlock was perfectly sure that he had said it clearly the first time. Molly was now looking at him with a slightly open mouth and the widest eyes.

He had said something wrong. Or, as John would say 'not okay'.

"If I'm honest, on reflection, it doesn't seem the best of Ideas. It's just th-" he hurried, apologetically, like he always seemed to do when he was being mentally reprimanded by Dr Hooper. No one else seemed to make him cower in such as state of regret. Well, that was if you didn't count his own mother.

They both seemed to hold some sort of ethereal power, unbeknown to him.

"Sherlock." Molly interrupted - having gathered herself enough to produce words from her open mouth. "Sherlock. I would like to, um...dance...with you." She managed to say. Not entirely believing or understanding what she was saying. "It would be...nice..."

"Are you sure? Because, I should have taken into account the trauma of tonight and the fright and-"

"I think I should be able to manage." Molly said, smiling at him, as if to say 'I'm not made of glass you oaf.', "Mind you, I don't think dancing is that much of a chore. I do it to calm myself down sometimes." She finished, getting up from the chair that seemed to be swallowing her whole. Sherlock only just realised that she was up and then, nodded, making his way towards the set of speakers, on the table in the middle of the room.

Molly waited for him.

He hit the play button and unexpectedly, Blue Monday by New Order started blaring out of the sound system. The song was a couple of minutes in when it started, but Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and led her to the centre of the space.

"I dance when I need to calm down too. I think that dancing, on my list of: 'things-that-help-me-to-calm-down', is probably next best to drugs and cigarettes."

Molly glared at him - He knew that she hated the idea of him 'wasting the gifts he was born with' on things like drugs. However, she couldn't glare at him for long as he pulled her in closer, so they could dance without looking like sad idiots, trying not invade each other's personal space for the sake of being polite.

Sherlock placed his hands - carefully - on her waist. He could feel her shiver slightly as he did so.

Molly thought that it was acceptable, now that he had his hands on her waist, to rest hers on his neck.

They swayed with the slowish, but upbeat, tempo of the music.

"So you like dancing?" Molly asked, attempting to make light conversation and take her mind off a variety of things.

"Yes."

"Thats...funny..." Molly smiled to herself, looking away.

"Why is it?" Sherlock asked, seriously.

"Well..." She started, not particularly wanting to do or say anything that would cause him to take his hands off of her. "I just never thought that someone...like...you...would _enjoy_ dancing."

"There is a lot you don't know about me Molly Hooper."

Molly blushed. She felt silly about blushing at such a simple thing, but it sounded so alluring; the way his baritone voice deepened when he said her name.

"I'd like to be able to say the same about myself to you, Sherlock Holmes."

This time Sherlock was the one smiling. It wasn't one of his smirks, or one of those - lets face it - gorgeous, but incredibly fake grins that he pulled when he needed her to wheel a dead body out of the morgue for his own personal use. It was a nice, subtle smile. One that made her heart flip twice over.

"I'm don't know _everything_ about you. In fact, in comparison to my other friends, I know very little."

Molly warmed inside slightly as she realised that she was considered a 'friend' to Sherlock. She considered him _her_ friend but to him she thought that she was considered more of a 'work colleague' or 'dogs-body' if you wanted to be frank about it. She had classified John as Sherlock's only friend and decided that John would be stuck in that situation until the day he died (or even after that - she had an inkling that Sherlock would probably annoy the crap out of John in heaven too; if he got half the chance).

"What would you like to know?" Molly asked, surprising Sherlock a little bit. He thought that she would have just left the conversation there, not wanting him to know anymore, a lot of people did.

"Why did you shoot Moriarty?" He blurted out. Not thinking until afterwards, what he could have potentially done to Molly's nerves, by bringing back that topic of conversation, just as they had begun to forget about it. However, it had been bugging Sherlock.

"Well...He would have killed you."

Sherlock recalled, very many years ago, having a very similar conversation. With a very different woman. However, _that _woman had been defending herself, this one had been defending him.

"What about you? Didn't you shoot him to keep yourself safe? I would have thought that-"

The music stopped and Molly interrupted Sherlock again.

"No. Your life is worth 10 of mine. If you died then I wouldn't be able to cope - it was hard enough watching the people around you suffer while you were pretending. In that situation, Its better if I die. Don't you see? Also, you're 'The Great Sherlock Holmes', 'The Man in the Hat' I don't think the world could survive." She smiled at the end, trying not to put such a damper on this strange, but now enjoyable, evening.

"And that is where you are wrong, Miss Hooper." Sherlock's hands slipped around Molly's waist, pulling her closer, so he could whisper in her ear. She_ really _didn't understand now. Why was he this close? "There are a _lot_ of people out there who would_ love_ to have me dead rather than you."

Then it hit Molly. It all came back, the flood gates opened and she sobbed. Sherlock pulled her even closer and she buried her head deep in his chest.

"Like tonight..." her realisation barley audible through heaving breaths.

She calmed herself and pulled her face out of Sherlock's shirt and her arms from around his neck.

"I'm sorry Sherlock."

Molly wiped her tears and went to sit on the sofa on the other side of the room.


	6. Now I Stand Here Waiting

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order**

Chapter 6 - **Now I Stand Here Waiting**

* * *

There was a lot more silence.

Sherlock merely went back to his chair and sat. Not thinking about anything, he just sat and plucked randomly at the strings on the violin that Molly had spotted on the floor previously.

Then even more silence.

Molly glanced at the clock.

3:06

Well, it was looking as if she was going to have to sleep here.

"Sherlock?" She croaked. She hadn't cried for about 2 hours now, but she was still snotty and hoarse from the tears. "Could you tell me where the bathroom is?"

"Through the kitchen, the door on the left." He replied briskly.

She went through to the bathroom. Not as messy as the other rooms, but the shampoo, cologne, and shaving foam bottles cluttered practically every space possible. She washed her face, went to the toilet, washed her hands, found some mouthwash and used a little of it since she hadn't been expecting to be having a sleepover at Sherlock's house tonight, she hadn't packed the essentials.

After exiting the bathroom, more fresh faced than before, she walked over to Sherlock's chair. He looked up from his repetitive murder of the beautiful instrument.

"Do you have any spare blankets or cushions? I'm tired so I thought I might just-"

"No."

So, she was just going to have to try and find another way to keep warm - possibly her cardigan?

"Okay...um...so...I'll just be-"

"No. You won't need them. I'm sleeping on the sofa. My bed has plenty of blankets and cushions." Sherlock said, matter-of-fact-ly, standing up, brushing himself down and placing the violin in his armchair. He turned Molly around by the shoulder and led her towards the bedroom.

Opening the door, Molly noticed the room was dimly lit with a large bed and a few posters - mostly scientific and in some way brain-stimulating - there was a chest of drawers to the left of the bed and a wardrobe at the back of the room.

"You sleep here and I will make myself perfectly comfortable on the sofa. Plus, I have cases to get to work on."

This was a lie. He had absolutely nothing to do. He would quite like to have a sleep and rest his mind from this whole silly nonsense, but he had slept only the other night and he just wanted to make sure that she was okay.

"Sherlock...um...what do I...what do I wear? This top, its a bit...bloody...and...it stinks frankly."

Sherlock looked around the room - as if some pyjamas in Molly's size were going to materialize out of thin air.

He went to his cupboard and pulled out a very large t-shirt - he couldn't remember why or how he had one so big - and some grey jogging bottoms.

He put them at the end of the bed and Molly took them up in her arms and waited for Sherlock to go back out of the room.

...

"Sherlock..." she urged, looking at the bundle in her arms and the man who didn't seem to have a clue.

He still just stood there.

"Sherlock...some _privacy_...that would be appreciated."

"Oh." He realised, stepping outside the door and deciding to make himself a coffee.

He took the first sip of his hot beverage when Molly stepped back out from the bedroom.

The top practically swamped her. It looked more like a dress. She could have not worn the jogging bottoms and she would have looked perfectly decent. However, she looked very decent in what she was wearing now. Sherlock called it...disheveled beauty. He said that he was 'ignorant of the beautiful' but you'd have to be blind as a bat to miss this.

Sherlock realised he was staring.

"Um...how do you turn off the lights Sherlock...I don't like sleeping with them on."

She twirled her hands nervously, waiting for him to put it right.

"Right. Um, yes." Sherlock put down his mug and went back into the bedroom, switching off the lamps until only the one on the bedside was lit.

Molly took off her socks and climbed in between the sheets.

She shivered. The left side was cold. Sherlock normally slept on the right.

He walked over to the lamp and switched it off, emptying the room of any light, so all Sherlock could see was a slightly illuminated lump in his sheets, and all Molly could see was a tall, brooding figure, whose most prominent features were highlighted by the stream of light from the hallway.

"Good night Sherlock." Molly whispered.

"Good night Molly." Sherlock replied as Molly shifted about in the covers, attempting to make herself comfortable. She sighed as she found the perfect spot for her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.

Sherlock couldn't help himself but to reach down to the slowly breathing lump and gently kiss the top of it's head.

She stopped breathing for about 1.6 seconds - Sherlock counted.

He walked back to the door and paused just before he closed it;

"I'll be outside if you need anything."

For some reason; that he couldn't understand; a part of Sherlock wished that she needed something. Anything at all.


	7. You've Laid Your Hand Upon Me

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order**

Chapter 7 - **You've Laid Your Hands Upon Me**

* * *

The next morning, Molly felt considerably better. She had slept extremely soundly. Her headache was still being warned off by the ibuprofen she had taken yesterday - she would need to take another dose with breakfast or coffee - or whatever Sherlock had in the morning.

She stretched out of bed and walked towards the door, catching her reflection in the mirror slightly and noticing that it would be a good idea to sort out her hair before she went to greet Sherlock.

After she looked what could be termed 'decent', she walked through to the kitchen, expecting to see a clean, awake, sparky and undeniably beautiful, Sherlock sipping at some coffee or on his laptop.

This was not the case.

At all.

What she found was a very rugged looking man in a loose grey t-shirt and stripy pajama bottoms. He was sitting at the table, with his head pressed on the table, shielded by one of his skinny, but muscular arms and the other was stretched out, lengthily, over to the other side, holding a cup of very strong black coffee.

The most crucial element of this was that he seemed to be asleep.

His chest moved up and down slowly and every now and then you could hear a light snore.

Molly chuckled very quietly to herself and closed the door to his bedroom. Slowly, slowly, slowly - SLAM!

The sleeping man's curly mop of a head flicked up and looked straight at Molly. The look on his face was something to behold.

Molly bit her lip and mouthed 'sorry' at Sherlock, who was now blinking very slowly.

Strands of hair were stuck to his face with - was that dribble? - and the rest of his hair was a mass of black, tangled, curls. She wondered how he even got to tame it in the mornings to look positively stroke-able for the rest of the day.

She moved over to the counter where the kettle was, switching it on, she quickly washed up two mugs and found the coffee, sugar and a bottle of milk.

She remembered how he liked it.

Black, two sugars.

In a couple of seconds, she had prized the old cup from Sherlock's hand and replaced it with a new, hot, mug of char.

"I thought you had cases to work on." Molly smirked, jokingly, taking the seat opposite him.

"Well...I...erm..-" Sherlock tried to string together a coherent explanation.

"-Its okay Sherlock. You _can _fall asleep if you want to." Molly laughed. This was ridiculous, she had never heard of someone trying to excuse themselves from being asleep.

He was so tired and slow and just unlike Sherlock Holmes at the moment that she partially wished he would sleep more often.

"Although, I would have chosen the sofa, opposed to the table - personally - but, each to their own." Molly smiled cheekily at the detective as he took the first sip of his coffee. He breathed in heavily and the spark in his eyes seemed to light.

After a couple of sips, Sherlock winced and pointed at his head, merely saying;

"Head. Ow."

Molly knew what he meant. Her's had started hurting as well.

"Ibuprofen?" She asked, standing up.

"Cupboard nearest the bedroom door, middle shelf, should be next to the first aid kit."

She followed his directions and then chucked a packet at him for him to down and kept one for herself.

He made a move for the sink and poured himself a glass of water. He needed a glass of water to down a couple of tablets.

Well, this was new.

Sherlock - 0 Molly - 1

Molly caught his eye and teasingly chucked back the tablets without the aid of H2O. However, she nearly choked when she got a full-length look at morning-Sherlock.

His hair was messy and stuck to his face in places, yes, but as she looked further down, it got better.

His grey top had been hitched up on his hipbone so that a little bit too much skin was exposed for Molly's own good. The shoulder of the top was low on one side so you could see his very prominent collar bone and as Sherlock turned around to place his cup back in the sink:

You could only imagine.

Molly could not think of _anyone_ she had seen, male or female, real or celebrity, with such a perfect arse.

She felt an overwhelming urge to poke it to see whether it was real and would deflate and end up being just as flat and unattractive as everyone else's.

But she knew that it was, most likely, going to stay that shape and annoy the heck out of her until the day she died because a _man_ had a better backside than she did.

**Oh, well, life isn't fair, is it? **She thought to herself as she realised she was boring her eyes into Sherlock's back and backside.

He turned round and Molly tried to regain her composure.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock spoke, voice still slightly filled with sleep.

"That-That would be nice." Molly replied, chewing on the inside of her mouth.

"I think we only have toast." Sherlock said, gliding to the appropriate cupboard, looking briefly back at Molly who was, for some reason, still standing in the middle of the kitchen. "Is that okay?"

"Y-yes." Molly took a sip of her coffee. "What do you have to put on it?" She asked, walking over to the cupboard where Sherlock was.

"Butter, Marmite, Marmalade, Eyeballs," He said, pulling each one of the jars out of the cupboard and setting them down on the counter - smirking at Molly when the cow's eyes were placed next to the Marmalade. "Jam, O-, Peanut Butter...Thats about it really...Oh! No, look, thats where I put my sheep's intestine!"

The pair giggled like the weird, science freaks that they were and waited for the toast to pop.

As soon as it did, Sherlock threw Molly her piece and a knife to start spreading her topping or part-of-an-animal onto her toast.

Sherlock opted for Jam.

He reached one of his arms around the back of Molly in an attempt to reach the jar, but, instead ended up trapping her.

She turned round with the buttery knife in one hand and was blushing and breathed quietly:

"Sherlock? What are you-"

But before Sherlock could understand what was happening, what he was doing or why he was doing it, he stopped Molly mid sentence and captured her mouth in a careful kiss. Well, it started out careful anyway.

He bought his hands to her waist and pressed himself against her. Molly's hands flew to around his neck.

"I think its best you take that knife out of your hand Miss Hooper." Sherlock murmured in her ear, just before he hoisted her onto the counter so he didn't have to bend down to kiss her. "Don't want you killing anyone else do we?" He laughed darkly as Molly haphazardly dropped the knife onto the floor, using her now free hand to work through Sherlock's knotty bed-hair.

Sherlock bit lightly on Molly's bottom lip and it caused her to sigh, sweetly into his ear.

"Molly Hooper. You can be positively libidinous sometimes."

Shit. Sherlock Holmes had just called Molly Hooper sexy. And he was kissing her. Properly. In his kitchen. While they were in their pyjamas. He smelt of coffee and sleep and toast and his hair was still stroke-able, even with about a million knots in it.

This was too perfect.

Thats why, as Molly kissed him back, properly, it just happened to stop.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"


	8. How Do I Feel

Sherlolly Fanfiction - **New Order**

Chapter 8 - **How Do I Feel**

* * *

Sherlock's head whipped around, breaking away from Molly's lips.

"MOLLY?!" The detective's friend stared at the girl who had her, large, bed shirt ridden up past her waist. "OH. MY. GOD. IS THAT MOLLY - MOLLY HOOPER?!"

Molly Hooper looked at the ground.

Mary entered, just behind John.

"What's all the comotio- Oh." She realised, looking at the pair in the kitchen. "Hi, Sherlock." she waved, like this was perfectly normal. "Hi Molly."

Dr Watson's mouth was wide open and he looked like he was trying to say something.

Sherlock broke the silence;

"Ahem." He coughed, briefly, taking his hands of off Molly's hips and pulling down her top. He stepped away, taking her off of the counter. "Good Morning John. Good Morning Mary." He greeted. "I think I have some explaining to do."

"YES, YOU BLOODY WELL DO." John spat. Sherlock turned back around to Molly and told her quietly to go and get dressed and have a shower, or whatever, while he sorted this out.

She closed the bathroom door and all she could hear were muffled shouts from the doctor as Sherlock tried to explain.

"YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS SHERLOCK." he shouted as Sherlock took a seat in his chair. "NOT WITH HER." He looked at the detective square in the eyes. "you are not pulling a 'Janine' on Molly Hooper. She does not deserve that."

Sherlock looked at the Doctor and his wife.

"Thats what you think I'm doing?" he asked, slightly bemused by John's assumptions. "You think, just because I had a lady, in her pyjamas, kissing me, that it is part of some sort of ploy."

"Well, Yes. Of course." John said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What else?"

Silence.

Mary smirked. She knew what was going on. John looked at Mary and managed to gather what she was getting at.

"Oh no." John was suddenly very worried. "Oh no, no, no, no, no."

"Sherlock. You can't be serious. This. _This,_" He gestured between the man and the bathroom door. "Will never end well. For either of you."

Sherlock was silent, not looking at his friend who had now taken a seat in his armchair. Admitting defeat. "Sherlock. You'll either end up hurting he-"

Molly came out of the bedroom, stopping the conversation abruptly. She grabbed her toast and finished buttering it, and started to chew on it, taking her mind off the situation at hand.

Everyone was silent.

John stared at Sherlock, Sherlock stared at his hands, Molly stared at her toast and Mary was surveying the situation - brain ticking.

"Ah!" Mary said, reaching into her coat pocket. "That'll be Beth." She took the phone to her ear; "Hey Beth," Nod; smile; nod; "You want to talk to John as well?" She covered the mic on her phone - "John, It's Beth - I think we might have to step outside for a second."

John was suddenly very happy that he had married a woman with such skills at handling these, very, very, very weird situations.

The couple made there apologies and stepped outside the door.

"Right," Mary started.

"I think he knows that that's our code word. How many times have we used it now? 4 in the last 2 weeks?" John smirked, feeling so clever.

"Well, It had to be done. This is very important."

"Right, so, what's the plan Mrs Watson?"

"Okay, so, what I want you to do is go back in there and have a word with Sherlock. On your own. Man to man. You just have to somehow twist his arm and give him the right incentive not to fuck it up (by that, John, I mean you tell him if he even uses or hurts her one _tiny_ bit, I will be forced to use my previous training) and get him to say what he feels abou-"

"You're joking aren't you?" John spluttered.

"No. It shouldn't be that hard. You're his bestest fwend!" Mary poked at John's stomach in the way the she knew annoyed him - but he secretly quite liked.

"This is Sherlock bloody Holmes you're talking about here - Mr. Sociopath-not-Psychopath of the century."

"Well, apparently he is undeserving of that title because I just saw him prepared to be very-"

"Yes, yes, yes." John dismissed, not wanting to hear anymore about what he had witnessed too. "Okay."

"Right. So, you do that and I'll do the same with Molly and then we'll congregate back in the living room and leave them to sort it out between themselves." Mary smiled cheekily at John.

"And by that you mean-" John realised.

"Fuck each other's brains out. Yeah." Mary was smiling herself silly.

John and Mary both re-entered the living room to find Molly bringing Sherlock his previously abandoned toast and coffee. They were whispering viciously - what? Neither Mary nor John could decipher.

"Everything okay?" Molly asked, unwise to the way of the Watson's.

"Um...yes...yes of course." Molly replied as Mary hastily led her out of the flat.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Molly asked, acting as if she didn't know.

"Look, Molly. Do you want this thing between you and Sherlock to continue?" She said in a straightforward, motherly tone.

"Um..." Molly didn't know what to say. It wasn't really a 'thing'. She didn't know what it was.

"Do you like Sherlock?" Mary asked again.

"Yes." Molly stated - It was a fact. Of life.

"Would you like to do that again? With him? Without our interruption?" Mary didn't beat around the bush, so neither did Molly.

"Yes"

"Would you like for John and I to leave you and Sherlock to it?"

"Yes."

"Right," Mary sighed, gleefully. "So, You _would_ like this to continue, and I have a feeling that Sherlock would like to as well."

**_Sherlock would like to as well. Sherlock would like to as well. _** Molly said that in her brain about fifty times before Mary spoke again.

"So, I and John have made a condition for Sherlock - because, however clever he may be, Sherlock doesn't actually know _a single thing_ about humans or human nature - so...Molly you listen to me when I say this." She took Molly's head in between her hands and looked seriously into her eyes, "If he does anything. _Anything at all, _to hurt you. You tell me - or John - And we will put him right. I can't fix the way he his, but it seems that you've been able to love him for that, which, is a bloody miracle."

On the other side of the wall a similar tone of conversation was taking place.

"Right...so..." John started awkwardly. "Molly." He said, looking at Sherlock. "You like her?"

"Obviously." Sherlock retorted. _Obviously_ he liked Molly. What wasn't there to like frankly? - Okay, her taste in jumpers left something to be desired and her joke-telling was appalling, but that aside, she was intelligent, pretty, she liked him, she put up with him, she was friendly and she had saved him. Three Times. She had put up with Jim Moriarty's words and actions that were extremely good at getting under your skin and inside your mind. All for him. He had done nothing in return or to say thank you - his only real attempt had been rudely interrupted by his best friend and his wife. Sherlock knew that Molly had always had a 'thing' for him, but now he had an excuse to return what equal amounts of it _he_ had. Which he thought held more logical and understandable value than what Molly felt for him. It was overwhelming.

John made a mental note: Feelings discovered - Check.

"Yeah, well, It _had _crossed my mind when I walked in here to find you practically breathing in each other on the kitchen counter."

Sherlock responded to John's bluntness by turning a little red.

"Sherlock? What are you going to do?" He asked, slightly desperate.

"What would you do?" he replied, chewing absent-mindedly on his toast.

"I would probably take her on a date, but that's not going to happen is it?"

"No." Sherlock looked into his coffee, he almost sounded annoyed that it wasn't going to. Like he couldn't help it.

**Idiot.** John thought.

"Right, so, we're just going to let her know another way."

"Let her know what?" Sherlock enquired, searching John's fcae for an answer.

"Let her know how you feel." John finished, preparing himself for multiple reaction scenarios.

Silence.

At least it wasn't a punch.

"Look Sherlock. I know about these things - as hard as it is for you to admit it - you're shit at stuff like this. I have the higher ground here so let me tell you this - you do not kiss a girl like that and say you don't have feelings for her. That is both cruel and stupid."

John felt good being the one giving the advice for a change. Sherlock looked so clueless in his armchair, with his tea - just staring blankly at it.

"Right - so - okay..." He looked up at John. "How do I...?"

"Anything really. You could kiss her again, genuinely tell her you love her (although I get the inkling that that's not going to happen)." Sherlock shook his head in agreement. " You could serenade her with a beautiful poem or a song, make her breakfast with note, or you could simply take what you were doing earlier...further..."

He smiled at his friend, reassuring him that this strange, new, thing he had discovered wasn't so bad. He also smiled at the weirdness of the day - he'd gotten up, expecting to go around to 221b to talk about a new case or just to merely pass Sherlock his phone. He had been very wrong.

"Um...Okay..." Sherlock smiled back at his friend, unsure, but taking his advice anyhow.

Molly and Mary both walked back into the room, both of their smiles as big as the each other's.

Mary piped up;

"Right, me and John have to go and meet up with Beth now - Sorry for the short visit guys - we'll probably** _pop by later _**to check on** _how you are doing_**." Mary looked at Molly purposefully. " - John said you wanted to speak to us Sherlock."

Molly had moved around, next to Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock tried to answer Mary, but John intervened:

"I've been meaning to have a chat with you anyways Sherlock, so we'll stop by later just to **_catch up _**with _**how things are going**." _With every emphasis John put on his words, Mary made a rude or very suggestive gesture about the hidden motives. Just incase they didn't get the hint.

Mary grabbed John's hand, shouting: "Okay, Bye guys!" as she sped out of the door, trying to leave as quickly as possible so they could 'sort it out for themselves.'

"Too much emphasis?" John said as they stood on the steps, outside 221, laughing hysterically.

"No, perfect. They should get the message." Mary said between heaves of laughter.

Upstairs in 221b, Molly Hooper had already made quick work or Sherlock Holmes' pyjama top, as had Sherlock with her blouse.

"I have no Idea what that was all about." Sherlock breathed into Molly's neck as he unhooked her bra in one, swift movement.

"Me neither..." Molly murmured as she was lifted so her legs were wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

"What did Mary want to talk to you about?" He asked breathily, just before Molly kissed him forcefully on the lips.

"Oh...um...Nothing..."

Sherlock kicked open the bedroom door.

John and Mary were going to have to knock the next time they visited. And pretty much every time after that.


End file.
